


looking over a four leaf clover

by thisbluespirit



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1920s, Competency, Drunkenness, Employer-servant relationships, F/M, Humor, Servants, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 02:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14010138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit
Summary: He'd heard about situations like these. He'd been warned about them. It's just that none of them were supposed to play out quite like this...





	looking over a four leaf clover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonster/gifts).



> I was inspired by your initial likes & request and wrote most of this treat during sign-ups, before you'd added any prompts. I hadn't thought about the possibility of a contemporary setting for this pairing, however - so, apologies for the non-modernity, and I hope you still enjoy it nevertheless! (And it is, at least, no further back than 1927.)
> 
> With thanks to Persiflage for the beta.

**One**

He’d heard of situations like these. He’d been warned about them: it wasn’t only the men of the house who couldn’t be trusted. Their wives, daughters, and sisters often did considerably more than eye up the footmen or the valets (or sometimes the maids, but that wasn’t Robert’s current problem). The thing was, none of the scenarios he had heard about or sometimes imagined, had ever played out like this one.

“Where’s the harm?” said Miss Penelope, gazing up at him with big brown eyes and giving him her very best imploring look, and since Miss Penelope had been a big hit in her school plays, that was a very moving expression indeed. Hardened butlers might melt before it, let alone a mere valet. “Who will ever know?”

Robert remained unperturbed. It was what he was paid for, after all. Every family disaster must be greeted with a mere, “Very good, sir,” or “Leave it me, madam.” He had learned to carry it off to perfection. “Mrs Adams,” he said, referring to the cook.

“I’ll put everything back in all the right places!”

“Nevertheless,” said Robert, “she _will_ know. She has a sixth sense when it comes to people messing about in her kitchen.”

Miss Penelope gave up on the imploring look, and straightened up, fixing him with her serious stare instead, impeded only by the fact she would need a stepladder to pull it off creditably. (Robert had started out as a footman and was over the regulation six foot. Miss Penelope, despite being fully grown, was clearly never going to make it much past five foot two. Not that she let it get in her way.)

“Well, if you don’t,” said Miss Penelope, “I shall confess to Daddy about all this time we’ve spent alone together in the darkened kitchen in the middle of the night. Definitely including how you kissed me.”

“That would be blackmail. And, what’s more, a whopping fib.”

“Exactly. So teach me how to cook!”

Robert sighed. “Why can’t you ask Mrs Adams to teach you? It’s her kitchen, she’s the expert, and she could do it in daylight without giving your father a heart attack. And she’s, well, she’s very persuadable.” (In Robert’s experience, the offer of a bottle of sherry was all one needed to get what one wanted out of the cook.)

Penelope pulled a face and then sat on the kitchen table. “Look, it’s like this: Daddy pinched you from Cousin Phil, didn’t he?”

“I would hardly put it in quite those terms, but, yes, I was working for Mr Pettifer when your Father made me a particularly generous offer for my services.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

Robert concentrated on remaining unperturbed. It was becoming more of a challenge than usual.

“Well, anyway, when you were Cousin Phil’s gentleman’s gentleman, you had to dress him, press his shirts, keep the place tidy, launder, and whisk up a decent supper should he want to eat in, _and_ you drove the Triumph for him on occasion. You even fixed it sometimes. I know you did, because it was after that time he was boasting about what a marvel you were and how must have you saved him pounds at the garage, that Daddy swooped in and bagged you.”

“Miss Penelope –”

“And those are exactly all the things I need to learn to get by on my own. You can’t expect me to go round begging every different servant in the house to teach me how to do each one in turn, when you know how to do all of them perfectly well.”

“It would be less improper than midnight lessons in the kitchen.”

“And that sort of attitude is why I have to resort to blackmail. If you’d just agreed in the first place, I’d still have all my morals intact.”

“I doubt that, Miss Penelope.”

She laughed. “True, I suppose. I take after Daddy. He didn’t get where he is by being nice. Now, come on, or do I have to threaten something worse than blackmail?”

“Oh, very well,” he said, giving in despite his better judgement. There would be hell to pay if they were found out. He would be in danger of losing the best paid and most comfortable position he’d ever had. But he couldn’t disapprove of her wish to know the basic skills of life, and while he told himself sternly that was all there was to it, he couldn’t resist the thrill of getting to spend more time with her than he ever had before.

“Would it be too much to ask why you want to know how to do tasks that I can’t imagine you will ever be called upon to perform? I can show you how to boil an egg very simply, but when are you going to use such a trick?”

Penelope stared across at him from his position on the table. “Well,” she said, “for one thing, you never know, and for another – what would you say Daddy is?”

“A highly successful man, Miss. A businessman of acute acumen – and, I believe, a millionaire.”

“True. And very polite. But if he weren’t filthy rich with a house in Mayfair and paying your wages, what then?”

“Miss?”

Penelope slipped down from the table. “A crook and a gambler, that’s what.”

Robert, in the process of finding one of the copper pans (for the purposes of boiling an egg to the precise degree required), stopped and turned. “Miss Penelope, I hardly think that’s fair. Ruthless, perhaps, but a crook? Surely not.”

“He has spies in other people’s offices and bribes officials to tip him off about land sales or any other deal going. He snaps up smaller business and closes them down to sell them off for the profit. And then he takes his ill-gotten gains and speculates on the stock exchange.”

“You know that’s an exaggeration,” said Robert. “If that were so, I should hardly have stayed here, despite the very excellent wage Mr Whittaker pays me. Your father can be ruthless, as you say, but I think calling him a crook is going too far.”

Miss Penelope patted his arm. “Yes, but I think you _are_ nice, unlike us, that’s the thing. Anyway, the point is, one day he’s going to make a mistake and lose us everything.”

“And you want to know how to get by?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I daresay we’d be all right once we’d sold off the family silver and Mummy’s jewels and the house in Brighton, and Daddy will no doubt have plans of his own – but I think I’d like to be prepared.”

“I’m sure, Miss,” he said, turning his attention back to the pan, the water, and the egg, “that you will make a splendid match and not have to worry about anything of that sort.”

Miss Penelope, out of his vision, was silent. In fact, she was silent for so long, he had to turn to check she was all right.

“Miss Penelope?”

She had her arms folded. “Oh, I’m just wondering what Mrs Adams will think if I throw the eggs at you instead of boiling them. I have my own plans, thank you. And all I want from you is that you teach me a few simple things. Such as boiling that darn egg before everyone else is awake again.”

“Very well. Take the saucepan. Place the egg in it and fill it with water until it’s covered, or almost covered –”

“And,” said Miss Penelope, not paying all that much attention to the lesson she’d begged for so earnestly, “you do know that Daddy’s plan for emergencies would be to bolt to some rotten tax haven and live out our days there? I can’t imagine anything more beastly.”

“ _Place the egg in the saucepan –_ ”

“Yes. Sorry. Ta da!”

“Very impressive, Miss. You’re a natural, if I do say so myself.”

She glared.

“Yes, sorry,” he said, and grinned at her. “But pay attention this time. I think your ideas sound admirable, but I don’t want to be up any longer than we need, either. Some of us have to be up again at six.”

Miss Penelope relaxed into a smile, and, putting her hand on his arm for balance, stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Robert.”

“None of that now, Miss,” he said. “Now, if you will – the egg.”

“And of course, now if you try to weasel out again, it won’t be a lie when I tell Daddy about us kissing in the kitchen.”

“I believe you’re right,” he said. “You _do_ take after him. The resemblance is most marked. Let me tell you that if you keep threatening that – which I know you don’t mean – I shall finish our lessons now.”

“I could have you dismissed.”

“Your father,” he said, looking down at her, “says I am indispensable. No one, he says, knows how to get quite such a shine to a pair of shoes as I do. He wouldn’t do it.”

“How much do you want to bet?”

Robert met her gaze. “Shall we just start with this egg before it hatches?”

* * *

**Two**

“Robert!” said Penelope, flinging herself at him, slightly damp from the spring drizzle. “Where’s Barlow?”

“It’s his evening off, Miss – unfortunately.”

She clutched at his arm and he was forced to steady her. “Let’s go to Brighton. Don’t you think that would be fun?”

“Aside from the fact that it is already two thirty a. m., it’s also only April yet. Hardly seasonal. Besides, it would be extremely inappropriate even if it _were_ August.”

Penelope stuck out her tongue. It seemed to be blue. She blinked a bit, but decided she might fall over if she tried to stare at it hard enough to make sure.

“Into the car,” said Robert, opening the door for her. “You, Miss, are drunk, and it’s about time I took you home.”

Penelope got inside, and once he’d returned to the wheel, she leant forward. “Yes, and then you can finish teaching me to starch collars. Although I don’t see what the point is. I think even if Daddy did lose all his money, I wouldn’t need it. I might not marry – and if I did, I’d marry a man who knew how to starch his own collars.”

Robert concentrated on the road. It was practically empty at this time in the morning, but nevertheless, he seemed to feel that it required every ounce of his attention in order for him to navigate it safely. Penelope heaved a sigh, and hoped he was taking her hint and contemplating ideas above his station. 

“I suggest,” he said, “that you sit there quietly until we reach the house, when I shall fetch you a cup of tea.”

“You sound like Grandmama, you know. Is that a thing you have to take classes for or were you just born aged about seventy?”

Robert treated a lamp-post to a glare as they passed it. “I’ve always thought Lady Florence was very sensible when it comes to these things.”

“What a fib, Robert,” said Penelope, falling back onto the seat, giggling. “Grandmama drives terror into everyone who’s met her. I’m pretty sure I saw even you quaking in the hallway last time she came to stay. Most people would settle for battle-axe. Or worse.” She finished with a hiccup, and then sang, vaguely, “La, la, la, _Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed_ …”

“Shh, Miss.”

“You know,” said Penelope, going cross-eyed in the attempt to be sure of her facts, “I think my tongue is blue.”

“It did rather look that way.”

Penelope leant forward again. “It was one of those blue cocktails, the thingummies, the one Cousin Phil says you used to make so divinely.”

“Miss Penelope, you don’t mean to tell me that Mr Pettifer attempted to mix a Blue Riot?”

She hesitated, as if deep in thought, and then held up a hand and stared at it. “Well, it was defin-definitely blue. Abso-posi-lutely blue.” She laughed again, all the more so because she could tell from the back of his head that Robert was getting annoyed. Any minute now, he might lose his imperturbility, which she thought would be splendid. She watched his head intently. It was a nice head, with ears the right shape, she decided muzzily, and then sat down.

“It was blue,” she said, “and he said it was your recipe, but I said it couldn’t be because it was vile, and I’m sure you would have done better.”

“The Blue Riot,” said Robert, “is decidedly tricky and not to be attempted by amateurs. Which, if you’ll forgive me, Mr Pettifer undoubtedly is in that particular field.”

“Quite,” said Penelope, and closed her eyes, beginning to feel that all this talking was a bit of an effort after all. It was probably as well they hadn’t gone to Brighton.

Robert cleared his throat. “You know, Miss, I’d have thought you’d have had more sense than to have drunk anything of that sort prepared by Mr Pettifer. I always thought, despite everything, that you were a young lady with her head screwed on the right way round. If you’ll pardon the expression.”

“I’ll pardon the expression,” she said, opening her eyes slowly, “but I don’t like that ‘despite everything’ at all. That was very unkind, Robert.” She sniffed and managed a few tears, catching one on her finger and contemplating it in the passing lamplight. “Besides, Margot Allister said the Blue whatsit was utterly revolting and bet that no one could manage a whole glass. So, I did. That showed her.”

There was another silence, and Penelope felt as if more explanations were needed. “And I only went because Cousin Phil said he would get me an audition – for the Empire Theatre, you know. It’s a decent one, you know.”

The back of Robert’s head was inscrutable now, as he pulled into the gravel of the driveway, “I see, Miss. I see.”

 

Stumbling out of the car, Penelope felt abruptly sick. Really, she thought with a sort of detached interest during the process, it was only a wonder she hadn’t been earlier. Then she wished she _had_ been, as then Robert wouldn’t have been there to witness it. The glow of tipsiness was fast fading away and leaving her feeling uncomfortably sure that he must despise her after all.

Robert, however, said nothing about despising anyone, and merely passed her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. When she came close to passing out on the steps – she rather thought _everything_ had gone blue for a moment – he said, “Excuse me, Miss,” and picked her up, an armful of taffeta and sequins and satin as she leant her head against his chest, and carried her up the stairs to where Annie, her maid, was waiting for her.

“I’ll get you that cup of tea, Miss,” he said, and disappeared, leaving her to now be gently scolded by Annie, who had been looking after her since she was about three.

“Now, Miss, what have you been doing with yourself?” she said.

Penelope felt sure that other Bright Young Things didn’t have to put up with this kind of chorus of disapproval when they’d only had one night out. It had better have got her that dratted audition.

Even if it hadn’t, though, she couldn’t be entirely sorry: it _had_ got her well and truly into Robert’s arms.

* * *

**Three**

If certain people wanted proof that Daddy was a crook, this ought to show them, Penelope thought. While out for a drive in the Bentley, right in the middle of Daddy’s rhapsodies on the improvements of this new 4½ litre model, they had been stopped at gunpoint in the middle of a leafy Kent lane. 

Barlow was still being held in the car, but Penelope, Robert and Daddy had all had to pile out and were now standing here in the woods at the side of the road, rather as if they were in some badly advised British studio’s attempt at a gangster flick. It was even raining again, as it had for most of the summer. If it was fictional, she’d have said it wasn’t very convincing, but unfortunately, it was nevertheless real.

Penelope looked from Daddy to Robert. Daddy looked as if he was about to have steam coming out of his head any minute, while Robert was looking blank, which was his usual expression and told her nothing. She sighed, and then decided she’d have to do something herself.

“Please,” she gasped, one hand going to her chest in memory of Miss Allbright’s drama lessons at school. “Daddy’s heart!”

The man who’d been ranting at Daddy about the Gifford Paper Company and what he’d done to it, stopped and stared at her.

Unfortunately, so did Daddy. “Hell, Penny, there’s nothing wrong with my heart!”

“Sir,” said Robert, coming smoothly to Penelope’s rescue, “I feel this is no time for stoicism. Gentlemen, if you do not desist at once, Mr Whittaker won’t be able to tell you anything about the documents you require – he’ll have expired from the strain!”

Daddy went purple. He was about to blow all their efforts again, so Penelope took Grandmama’s hatpin, which she’d had ready in case of any opportunity to get at their attackers, and stuck it into his hand. Daddy yelled loudly enough to make all the irate ex-paper manufacturers jump and look towards him.

“I do believe he’s having one of his attacks now,” said Robert. “ _Sir_ ,” she heard him add in Daddy’s ear, preventing him from arguing again. “If you could play along.”

Daddy caught on at last and collapsed with a load groan. When the man with the gun bent down to find out what was wrong, Robert hit him and grabbed at the gun, both of them struggling for possession of it. The other made the mistake of trying to pull Daddy up, only to get kicked and bitten.

Penelope reflected once more on her drama classes, and screamed as loudly as possible, causing the last of them, the one in the car with Barlow, to race over. As the man grabbed her, she stabbed him in the side with the hatpin, causing him to shriek and drop his weapon – which made for two out of two disarmed enemies, if her maths wasn’t letting her down. She kicked the gun out of his reach before he could get it, and it skittered away over the stones and slid in the mud. Penelope had to grab a nearby tree to stop herself falling after it on the slippery, wet ground.

By them Robert had full possession of the other gun and ordered their attackers back against the hedge. 

“You don’t know how to use that,” said the third man, the one from the car, moving away from Penelope and advancing on Robert.

Robert had his most imperturbable look on his face as he fired. The shot missed the man by less than an inch and thudded into a tree behind him. “I think you’ll find, sir, that I do. Now stand back. We’re going to take our leave.”

Barlow took that as his cue to get the car going again, while Penelope helped Daddy up. He didn’t seem grateful for her concern: he glared, and then dragged her into the Bentley after him. She stared out, her gaze fixed on Robert, who was backing towards them, but slowly, still keeping the other men covered. The ex-paper manufacturers seemed to have been a lot more bluff and bluster than anything else – and now they were most certainly damp squibs – but Penelope didn’t want him taking any silly risks nevertheless, _or_ Daddy giving the order to drive off before he got inside, which she wouldn’t put past him.

However, Robert reached the car without mishap, hastily diving into the passenger seat, as they drove off.

Daddy was not in a good mood, despite the fact that they had got away with little more than a few scratches and bruises. “They really ought to do something about all these people who’ve still got souvenir German guns in the back of their wardrobes. If papermakers are going to be haunting the by-ways of Kent waving pistols about, nothing and nobody is safe anymore!”

“Daddy,” said Penelope, “never mind that – what did you _do_ to his stationery business?”

Daddy declined to answer.

 

“You’re right,” said Penelope later, while Robert tried to teach her about starching collars, something she thought wasn’t as necessary a skill as he seemed to. “You really _are_ indispensable, aren’t you?”

Robert said, “Mr Pettifer was very keen on hunting. Naturally, I had to learn how to handle firearms.”

“Naturally,” said Penelope. “Which is very useful, actually –”

“And, no,” he said, “we are not adding that to your lessons. Absolutely not.”

Penelope laughed. “Spoil sport.”

“Not at all. You seemed to be doing perfectly well as it was.”

She produced her weapon of choice. “It’s Grandmama’s hatpin. She told me that in her day no lady was ever without one – now I can see why!”

* * *

**Four**

“If a person needed to make a run for it from an afternoon tea at their aunt’s,” said Miss Penelope while sewing a button onto one of her father’s shirts, “how would you feel about aiding and abetting them? Maybe even being their getaway driver?”

Robert looked down at her for a long moment. “Would I be right in assuming that this person would be you?”

“Very probably,” she said, and then caught her breath, becoming suddenly serious. “I’ve got that audition at the Empire.”

“And why not begin it with a drama of your own making, is that it?”

“Grandmama and Daddy have both agreed – I have to go to Aunt Marian’s afternoon tea on that Saturday. She’s thinking of leaving me her emeralds and God forbid I should fail to inherit _all_ the family jewels. Grandmama is adamant, because it’s the Family, and Daddy – well, you know Daddy. It’s not an offer he’d be likely to turn down.”

“Do you think this audition is worth it?”

Miss Penelope finished her sewing and put down the garment. “I won’t know unless I go. Consider me a princess locked in a tower, awaiting the help of –”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, never mind. But will you?”

Robert considered. He considered the security of his job and the opinions of his employer and then he considered Miss Penelope, sitting on a stool in the kitchen, learning how to accomplish tasks she thought highly tedious, and which should have been entirely unnecessary for her to trouble her head over. He bit back a smile. “What do you want to bet, Miss?”

“You’re a brick,” she said, and held out her hand to him.

He took it.

* * *

**Five**

She wasn’t being a rat, deserting the sinking ship. Daddy’s ship would never entirely sink anyway, even if it ran aground for a while. Still, Penelope looked around her one last time before she slipped out of the front door. She had only a small suitcase of her personal belongings with her, since anything of value would soon be picked over by the bailiffs. Daddy was in his study, shouting down the telephone at people while it was still connected, and almost all of the staff had already gone, so there was nobody to impede her escape. 

Except, of course, for Robert, whom she found waiting for her in the driveway, leaning on the gatepost with his arms folded, despite the fact that it was sleeting.

“Before you say anything,” she said, marching over, “I’ve got this part at the Empire, and I’m not having it and my future swept away in Daddy’s financial disasters – or worse, whatever it is he’s busy doing to fix it all again!”

“Possibly a mixed metaphor,” said Robert, “but I take your point.” He straightened up and grinned at her, losing some of his usual stuffiness.

Penelope gave him a hopeful smile.

“It occurred to me,” said Robert, sounding solemn again, “that we haven’t yet covered public transport and I think the time has come. Don’t you?”

She bit her lip to try and keep her smile from widening further. “Well,” she said, “I _do_ have a bus to catch. I want the number 39, but I’m not sure where to find it.”

“I believe I can help,” said Robert. “What’s more, I’ll be very careful to tell you to break a leg once we reach the theatre.”

Penelope caught her breath. “That sounds splendid.”

“First, though,” he said, moving closer, “while we’re still here, I’d like to wish you luck.”

Penelope dropped her small suitcase as he caught hold of her, bending in nearer. Her heart did interesting acrobatics while her treacherous knees nearly failed her. She clutched at his arm, and swallowed.

“Wh-what if Daddy sees?” Daddy had, after all, taken about six weeks just to get over catching Robert teaching Penelope how to change the oil and the water in the Bentley. Of course, that might have been because the Bentley was still only a few months old. (Daddy had been quite forthcoming on its specifications, but Penelope had only thought too late during the tirade that she should have been taking notes for future reference.)

Robert actually laughed. It was very un-valet-like, but she approved entirely. “I no longer work for Mr Whittaker, we’re both more than of age, and you’re no longer in possession of a fortune. Provided we stay behind the laurel bush so we don’t alarm the neighbours, I don’t see what Mr Whittaker or anyone else is supposed to do, do you?”

“Gosh, yes,” said Penelope, stretching up the close the last of the distance between them, and slipping her arms about his neck as he kissed her quite as effectively as he did everything else. That was also very un-valet-like, too, she felt. It was simply marvellous. She kissed him back with equal enthusiasm. She was still a quick study.

Robert pulled away. “We’d better get that bus. The number 39 only runs once an hour and it’s almost due.”

“Yes,” said Penelope, smiling again. She couldn’t seem to stop. It wasn’t going to be easy, and perhaps she would regret not stopping to steal at least some of the family jewels, but it was going to be all right, she was sure. “What will you do?”

He glanced down at her. “Don’t successful actresses need managers or agents? I thought I might try my hand at one or the other.”

“Or both, why not?”

“Why not?”

They looked at each other, and grinned.

“But for now,” said Robert, “I think we’d better run for that bus!”


End file.
